Fifteen years ago today I was sitting in the off-campus coffee shop grading papers when one of the coffee shop girls came over to tell me I had a phone call. (We're talking pre-cell phone era here.) It was Keith. The adoption agency had telephoned: our son had been born about an hour earlier. We met at home, packed a suitcase, picked up Owen from day care, and headed west to Texas.
Adoption was always an option for me. I had always known I wanted children, but wasn't always too sure I wanted a husband. In vitro fertilization and all that was just developing; I do remember hearing talk of sperm donors and turkey basters, but I just figured if I hit my mid-30s and was still single, I'd adopt.
So, when we tried for a second after Owen and failed, adoption was a no-brainer.
On Thanksgiving week, 1994, after a couple of years of tests and more tests and thermometers and sex on schedule and sperm in a cup and Chlomid, I began calling adoptions agencies. "Are you Catholic?" Click. "Do you have $25,000 readily accessible?" Click. "Is one of the parents over the age of 40?" Click. "Do you have a child?" Click. But finally I hooked up with an agency that specialized in "unadoptable" children.
We filled out the most agonizing form. Would you accept a blind baby? A deaf baby? A baby with AIDS? with spina bifida? With a cleft palate? A child whose been the victim of physical abuse? of sexual abuse? On and on and on it went. We had anguished discussions long into the night. But there was an easy question: Would you accept a child of another race? Duh. Yeah.
We received a phone call almost immediately:
"I just wanted to make sure about one thing here on your application form. You've checked that you'd accept a child of any race. Any race. Is that correct?"
Yes, I said.
"Let me just make sure I have this straight. You'll accept a child of any race?"
Yes, I said.
"Umm, sorry, but let me make sure: are you saying you'll take a black child?"
Yes, I said.
Long pause.
"Well, if that's really the case, I can guarantee you'll have a healthy newborn baby in three months."
But the color nonsense continued. After we hooked up with Hugh's birth mother and the adoption was set in motion, the social worker assured us that after the baby was born, we'd receive a photo, that we'd get to approve of the baby. We were confused, until she explained further. "If the baby's skin color is too dark, if you're just not comfortable with his color, then no problem, you can back out." Keith and I both had the same vision of choosing a baby with those little paint sample cards that you use to select colors for your walls: hmm, coffee, caramel, chocolate. . . ? We told her skip the photo, we'd take the baby even if he came out sporting polka dots.
On February 20, 1995, Hugh came into the world.
On February 21, 1995, we picked him up. Dark brown hair that the nurses had slicked down straight but, when we washed it a few days later, exploded into curls. Huge dark eyes. And the most gorgeous cafe au lait skin. No polka dots.
I assumed that by adopting a baby of a different race, we'd at least avoid any confusion RE the adoption itself--It would be clear from Day 1, to Hugh, and to the world, that he was adopted. I was wrong.
Here's our family: Blond, fair-skinned Me. Bald but once light brown-haired, fair-skinned Keith. Older son Owen who looks like both of us--clearly our biological child. Younger son Hugh, who's bi-racial, black (to most Americans)--clearly adopted. You'd think. And yet, here's the usual scenario: new people meet us. They look a bit perplexed. Finally, one--usually the woman--gets me or Keith aside and asks, somewhat awkwardly, "So, umm, is Hugh adopted?"
After years and years of this, I've become rather snarky. I now say, "Oh no. It's just Keith and I had a rough patch some years ago, so I had an affair with a black man and got pregnant." Then I smile brightly.
Tramp
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